


Thank the Mistletoe

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Anniversary, Bathtubs, Castiel is a Sweetheart, Castiel/Dean Winchester Anniversary, Christmas, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dean in Panties, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Heartbeats, Humor, M/M, Mistakes involving mistletoe are made, Mistletoe, Naked Cuddling, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:10:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8708470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: “You feel that?” he asks, tickling the tuff of hair behind Dean’s ear with his deep, raspy voice. “That’s your heart beating. Do you know why your heart beats?”





	

If there are two things to know about Dean Winchester, it's that a) he's, as Sam coins him, "Mr. Gung-Ho Christmas", and b) he's adventurous in the bedroom.

So naturally, when the season runs on jolliness (or materialistic greed, take your pick) like America on Dunkin, he has no problem combining the two for epic sex with his beautiful boyfriend.

A smile unfolds from his face easier than a Christmas ribbon as he surveys himself in the mirror. As thin around his waist and between his cheeks as fettuccini noodle is a bright red thong, making everything look bigger in comparison. There's not much curbing the creativity of the imagination, minus the pair of silver bells tolling good tidings ahead on both hips and the red and white satin stocking pressed against his pelvis that feels amazing against his skin. There's also real mistletoe embroidered on the sock that grazes his thighs as he walks (a personal touch).

It's cheesy, sure (not to mention a little itchy), but it's the kind of cheesy that's acceptable once or twice a year. After all, no one would more kindly take to fruitcake, wearing an ugly sweater, or even kissing a total stranger outside the holidays. The latter is what loosely - okay, _completely_ \- inspired the panties he's wearing.

He and Cas fell in love under a mistletoe after a dare. Clever set-up. Clever because everyone in that room knew Dean Winchester wouldn't back down from a dare, even if said dare involves planting one on his brother's wickedly hot professor friend who Dean barely gets a greeting out to because _Baby Jesus in the manger_ , the guy's friggin' gorgeous. Dean still remembers what Cas was wearing that day: blue jeans partly covering a red sweater with cat in a Santa hat and Tetris-style text reading _Meowy Christmas_. His hair sure looked like a cat kneaded it through, unlike his scruff, which is always a little more well-kempt, and his dark blue eyes, which still, to this day, remain impenetrable.

Dean remembers in that order, because that's the direction his own eyes traveled after a lingering kiss.

And damn him and his face redder than a Poinsettia, because all he said in response was a breathy _"Awesome."_

He has a strong feeling he'll elicit the same reaction out of Cas tonight.

***

"Awesome,” mumbles Dean, gripping harder the lower he descends until his knuckles match the color of the porcelain. The water’s not hot, just lukewarm—which is even _worse._ He feels like he’s slipping into a teacup that’s been sitting on the counter for an hour.

Cas just laughs—totally _not_ the feedback he wants out of tonight, but Dean’s grinding his teeth too much to protest at the moment—as he wets a washcloth and soaps it down with the bar of soap currently bracketed by Dean’s long calves. He starts from the inside of Dean’s thighs, which are blistered and glisten like orange particles found floating in the galaxy of a freshly opened canned soap.

Damn mistletoe. “Isn’t it supposed to be a magical plant? I mean, it brought _us_ together.”

“By word of mouth, yes, but the toxicity of mistletoe is actually very high.”

Dean knocks his head softly against the tile to his right. Whenever they ran out of paper towels in the kitchen, his mom would tap his head with the empty roll and state in her unswervingly jovial tone, _“That’s an awfully hollow head, mister!”_ Boy, she got that right.

“I’m not even allergic to anything!”

“Dust,” Cas points out.

“Well, I mean, _everyone’s_ allergic to—”

“The soap in the hotel we stayed at last month.”

“What hotel puts out soap with sulfur?!”

“Latex.”

“Learned _that_ one the hard way.”

 “Ms. Tate’s cat.”

“Okay, alright,” Dean concedes, “I’m allergic to _some_ things.”

Cas blushes, continuing his soft ministrations with the washcloth as he says, “For the record, you looked hot in those panties. You know, before I had to forcefully strip you from them.” Cas’s eyebrows do a little dance on his wide forehead. Despite himself, Dean huffs a small laugh of his own. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year, because they still sometimes act like love-struck loners hovering over the food table, swapping secret looks and accidentally brushing hands over the onion dip.

“Well, for the record, you always look hot.”

“Ditto,” Cas replies grinning.

Dean scoffs, “That was quite the romantic exchange.”

“Well, _off_ the record, as far as anyone else knows anyway, our first time was in your brother’s pantry closet.”

“Mmm, I think he knows. It took two people ten minutes to find the Nutella.”

“Hey, it was buried back there!” Cas argues.

Dean chuckles, “Yeah, because _we_ pushed it back!”

Cas’s large, sidetracking pink lips of his quirk up as he blushes again. He continues cleaning in larger circles to cover more of Dean’s other thigh. “If I recall correctly, you jokingly told me to ‘can it’ when I started to _—_ hey! Don’t scratch!”

“It’s itchy!” Dean whines, crossing his own arms, only with not-so-mocking petulance. “This sucks mistle _ass.”_

Cas smiles softly. “I know, babe. It’ll be over soon, three weeks tops.”

“No, not this, this is nothing—I mean us, you know, the me in you and me. Do you know when I was ten I got so distracted by Annie Hawkins, the picture-frame girl next door, that Mr. Devereaux’s palm tree threw me off my bike five feet into the road—?”

“Wait, go back.” Cas pauses his washing like a sander would a wooden finish he realized he cut too short. “What do you mean the you in us?”

“You mean the _me_ in us, because that would be redundant—”

“ _Dean.”_

Dean’s eyes flicker to Cas’s briefly before settling on the sudsy water between his legs, smirk dripping from his face quicker than a leaky faucet. It’s calm, unlike his thoughts. It would be a better representation if Dean took his finger and swirled the tap around endlessly, so that’s what he does.

“I don’t know,” he says, frowning. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t match up to you on an intellectual basis. You know, you’re a professor of Cellular Science, and you’re passionate about it. I could watch you talk for hours, but I don’t understand most of it. Sam does. My _younger brother_ understands what you’re talking about.”

There’s hesitancy, which Cas uses to haul himself up and starts stripping. It’s not slow and sensuous, but it’s not urgent either, so Dean admires the task. That’s another thing he learned quick about Cas: He’s not just a handsome face. His body is carved from the stuff that makes bronze medals and smoothed over in all the right places, like his chest and abdomen. His biceps are large, but his thighs and ass are stuffed with more copper than anywhere else, giving bounce a nickel a whole new meaning. And his legs…

Are stepping into the tub with him, stirring him from his musings. “What’re you doing?”

“Scoot over,” Cas says.

Dean does as he’s told. Cas settles into the opposite end of the tub and uses his right arm to wrap around Dean’s back. Dean gets the message, flipping around to scoot into Cas’s legs, careful not to brush his rash, until his back is clothed only by Cas’s equally bare torso. Cas’s left arm, crammed between the corner of the tub, wriggles free and starts running long, slender fingers through Dean’s caramel hair easier than a comb.

There’s not a lot of room for a second body, but Dean finds comfort in just feeling Cas’s chest rising and falling and periodically hitting his ear in a warm draft of air. Cas’s thumb starts to create small, perpetual motions on his chest, just below his green pentagram tattoo. “You feel that?” he asks, tickling the tuff of hair behind Dean’s ear with his deep, raspy voice. “That’s your heart beating. Do you know why your heart beats?”

Dean shakes his head.

“Well, the technical reason is because two billion cells are helping it beat.” Cas pauses. “The non-technical reason is because you’re alive. And some people, that’s all they are. But you, Dean… you’re remarkable. You breathe passion. Your heart beats for cars and comics and cooking and bendy straws and those vibrating beds in hotel rooms.”

Magic Fingers. But Dean’s not ready to speak yet.

“Those are the things I could watch _you_ talk about for hours. Do I know what ‘off-idle hesitation’ is? Or which issue of _Batman_ Bruce meets Robin? Or how much flour it takes to make a cake? Hell no. The last cake I made, I set off the smoke alarms!” Cas exclaims, holding Dean tighter as he laughs, which Dean feels pressing against the back of his neck like an endorsement stamp. Dean’s own lips turn up a _little_ as Cas continues:

“My point is, you are smart, Dean. And passionate. And funny. And thoughtful. And even a little dorky, even though you sometimes deny it. The list goes on. And Sam swore by all those things when I asked. Every single one. _” And that I’m a pain in the ass,_ Dean thinks. “And that you’re a pain in the ass,” Cas adds, “but in all fairness, I can be just as unruly.”

After a minute, Dean covers Cas’s right hand with his own and intertwines their fingers. “Well, now you know the real reason I was intimidated to talk to you,” he says, voice breaking off.

“Really? Not because of, what do you call them, my ‘perky nipples’?”

“That too,” Dean responds. His smile grows wider, which Cas tries to capture with his mouth by kissing the corner of his lips. Dean turns the simple action into a side-open mouth kiss. It’s lazy and wet, their tongues entangling not unlike their limbs, and Cas tastes like the cheeseburgers they had for dinner. Cheeseburgers Dean made which Cas praises on every social media, even though he’s made them half a dozen times since.

After another minute, they pull back. Dean breathes “Thank you” into the shell of Cas’s ear before closing his eyes and letting his head fall against his shoulder.

Cas smiles and leans his head on Dean’s. “Thank the mistletoe. Happy anniversary, babe.”

“Happy anniversary, angel.”

 


End file.
